


The Nature of Things

by FidotheFinch



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Damian feels defensive, Dog Fighting, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Animal Abuse, Poison, Tim feels left out, also gratuitous amounts of Damian and dogs, also some Bruce Wayne, dog attack, everyone's favorite emotionally constipated family, greek philosophy - Freeform, i didn't think i'd ever use it but oh boy look at me now, oh look there's fluff now too, unrealistic representation of animal abuse recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2018-12-23 04:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: “Nobody got hurt.”For a moment it looked like Tim wanted to say something to the contrary, but then he settled on, “Not tonight, no thanks to you. But it has happened, and it will happen again.“You destroy everything, Damian. It’s in your nature.”- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -After a mission gone wrong and a spat with Drake, Robin is benched. Worse than that: Damian is grounded. As serendipity would have it, it gives Damian the opportunity to facilitate the rehabilitation of the manor's new ward, a dog Batman rescued from a fighting ring.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Batfam fic, so please be gentle.
> 
> I am aware that the Batmobile’s doors cannot be “slammed” shut the way a normal vehicle’s could, but a Damian mid-tantrum would find a way to do it. Fight me.

The sound of the Batmobile door slamming shut echoed in the cave and sent several bats fluttering away.

“It would have been _fine_ if _you_ hadn’t been there!”

Red Robin braked his motorcycle harder than he should have, narrowly avoiding throwing himself into Batcow in the process. “Well, sorry for completing the mission with _minimal civilian damage_.”

“The mission was hardly completed; because of you, the perps got away!”

“Because of _you_ ,” Red Robin started, “there were fifteen hostages that needed to be rescued first.”

Robin crossed his arms. “They would have been fine! I had it under control!”

“No you didn’t! You were too busy trying to impress B to even notice the bomb!”

Robin paused, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “There was a bomb.”

The older boy carried on as though he hadn’t heard him. “It was a rookie mistake!” He stormed up until he cast his shadow over the young Robin. “The rest of us have been trained—“

Robin uncrossed his arms in favor of making fists. He spoke through grit teeth. “I was raised with the most elite training—“

“ _You_ were trained to _murder_ people!”

“I—“

It was at that point that the Batmobile’s driver’s side door opened, revealing the Batman, glare and all. His disapproving look was enough to keep the boys from taking the last steps towards one another. It did nothing to cut the tension, though.

“Red Robin.” Tim stood to attention on automatic, but it was clear by the way his hand hovered near his belt that he was still cautious of Damian. “Head to the showers. I want a full report on what happened tonight.” Red Robin gave a shallow nod in acknowledgement but didn’t otherwise move.

“Now,” Batman almost growled. Red Robin jumped a little at the tone of voice, but his shoulders relaxed when he realized Batman’s gaze was directed at Robin instead of himself. With a smirk over his shoulder, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the changing rooms.

Robin watched him leave with a growing sense of dread. Back at the League, his servants were sent away before he was punished to prevent them seeing him as weak. He knew his father would never hurt him, but some small part of him was always wary still.

“Robin,” and it was Damian’s turn to go stiff. “No patrol for two weeks.”

Damian’s stomach clenched. “But—“

“Three weeks, and you’ll meet Alfred at six a.m. each morning to assist with chores.”

Damian glowered. “This is not fair.”

Batman—he hadn’t taken off the cowl or readjusted his voice yet—made his way toward the Batcomputer chair. “You need to learn that your actions have consequences.” He began to flick through the case files on his computer. “You went offline for two hours tonight, failed to follow my orders, and endangered the lives of civilians needlessly.”

Robin frowned. “I was doing what I was supposed to. The mission—“

“There is more to this line of work than bringing criminals to justice. If Red Robin hadn’t intercepted their radio transmissions, you and the hostages would be dead.”

That got Robin’s lips to purse. He waited, watching Batman sift through the city’s surveillance and methodically alter or delete any trace the Batfamily had been there. After several minutes, Batman took an external storage device from his utility belt and hooked it in.

The cruise ship that served as a front for the criminals came into focus, from several odd angles. After a second, Robin sprinted across the view of one. Damian watched with his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth as the hidden cameras picked him up in three. . . _four_ places, the last being what he had thought was a secure hiding place. And then he caught movement from that initial camera, as armed guards crept carefully around the corner, clearly aware that Robin was present.

Damian didn’t miss the way Batman’s jaw clenched. He didn’t miss when Batman’s shoulders rose as the guards approached while Robin had remained unaware. He definitely noticed Batman’s fingers twitch when the guards surrounded Robin with guns trained on his yellow R.

It was lucky that the power had mysteriously gone out at that moment. Luckier still that, by the time the light was returned, Robin had been swept from the ship and buckled into the Batmobile under threat of permanent dismissal.

Batman’s hand clenched into a fist, and the footage was saved.

“Father—“

Batman’s hand raised in a silent command to be quiet. Damian complied, unwilling to further anger him.

“You have improved.” Damian squelched whatever hope was rising in his chest, knowing an admonition would be on the heels of his father’s scant praise. “But it’s clear to me your League training is interfering with your performance in the field.”

Robin wilted.

Finished with whatever he had been doing, Batman stood. “I’ll tell Alfred to expect you in the morning.” And he walked toward the changing rooms.

At the same time, Tim reappeared in an old T-shirt and a pair of sweats, toweling his hair dry. His shoulders were more relaxed than Damian had seen them all night. “Hey, B, I was wondering if maybe next weekend we could. . . .” He trailed off as Batman walked right past him and disappeared into the changing room, not sparing him a second glance.

If Damian cared he would have noticed that Tim’s face fell. As it was, for reasons totally unrelated to what he may or may not have witnessed, he suddenly felt the need to say something to him. “Drake.”

Tim’s eyes snapped to him and narrowed in suspicion. His face quickly took on that cool, unaffected look that Damian himself had perfected years ago; his shoulders began to inch up again. “What?”

Damian took a moment to choose his words carefully. “Father has brought to my attention the value of what assistance you were able to provide in tonight’s mission.”

Yes. Grayson would be proud.

Tim scoffed and a single shoulder hitched up in a half-shrug. “I was doing my job.” His eyes flit to his discarded motorcycle and he started going through the motions to put it away properly.

Damian studied Tim’s retreat, considering what he had said. Then he scowled, took a defensive step back, and raised his chin. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Tim paused in refueling his bike to glance back over his shoulder. “After you disappeared, B left me so he could go look for you.” He turned his back to Damian again. “I hacked into their transmissions to listen for any sign we had been discovered. That’s when I heard about the bomb.” He shifted his weight on his feet, seeming to take a moment to consider whether to continue or not. “If you hadn’t gone offline, you would have known about it, too.”

Damian lowered his chin into a glower. “Do not try to place the blame for tonight’s failed mission on me.”

Tim’s brow furrowed and his shoulders raised. “I’m not—“ he cut himself off with a huff. His eyes skirted the changing room door where Bruce had disappeared. Perhaps they flicked to the Jason Todd memorial, perhaps they landed among the discarded prototypes Tim and Bruce had worked on before Batman was lost in time. He shook his head. “People can’t change.”

Something about the way Tim said it made Damian’s heart catch. “You are wrong.”

Tim sat down in the chair in front of the Batcomputer and began typing up a report, giving no sign of having heard Damian.

But he was tired of being ignored. “If people were unable to change,” Damian levelled at his back, “I would have stayed with Mother.”

Tim didn’t look away from his work. “Exactly.”

Damian watched the reflection of Tim’s face on the darker parts of the screen. “Speaking vaguely is beneath you, Drake. Tell me what you are trying to say.”

Tim’s fingers paused. He studied the keyboard a moment, then seemed to make up his mind and continued typing. When it became clear he didn’t intend to explain, it took everything in Damian’s power to not stomp his foot.

He glared at Drake’s back all the way to the changing room. As such, he didn’t see his father until he was right on top of him.

He caught himself and made to step around him, but Bruce’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Robin.”

Damian shrugged the hand off and kept going.

“Damian.”

Damian paused. Absently, he noticed that Tim had stopped typing, too.

He heard Bruce turn around but as a small act of defiance refused to meet his gaze. The hand rested back on his shoulder anyway and, to his amazement, squeezed reassuringly. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He didn’t know what to say, so rolled his eyes with a “tt,” and disappeared.

He took longer than normal to shower and change, so didn’t expect to see anybody else in the Cave by the time he emerged. But Drake was still at the Batcomputer, tapping away at the keyboard, a fresh mug of coffee on the desk before him. No doubt left by Pennyworth.

“Tt. If Father knew it would take you all night to type a simple report, he would have hired a monkey to do it instead.”

“Not now, Damian.”

There was a small window open next to the report, playing what Damian recognized as more footage from the night’s mission. Red Robin was the star, one of the guards’ communicators hooked to his belt. He was leading the group of hostages to the relative safety of the docks. With two people, the task would have been easy enough—one person leading and another tailing—but by himself Red Robin had been forced to watch for enemies from all angles.

Damian watched over Tim’s shoulder in fascination as Red Robin fought off a group of guards once they reached the deck of the ship, successfully drawing attention away from the hostages taking the lifeboats to safety. A foolish move, especially without backup. They could have easily thrown him overboard.

The eyes of the Red Robin on screen widened when the gang members managed to corner him. Though Damian knew the outcome of the fight, his blood ran cold when he realized Red had been talking to Batman over the comms the whole time: ‘I need backup.’

But Batman was looking for Robin.

The footage froze, Red Robin’s grapple hook pulling his feet free of the chaos below. “Is there something you want?” Tim asked.

Damian swallowed, transfixed by the knowledge of what had happened. “What possessed you to attempt that on your own?”

“I was doing my job. It had to be done.”

“It was foolish. You should have gone with sufficient support.”

“I did.” A pause. “Batman had bigger problems to worry about.”

Damian scowled at the implication. As though he needed reminding. “Where is Father?”

“How should I know?”

“You were the last to see him.”

“No, you were.”

Recalling his earlier conversation with his father reminded Damian of his early morning appointment. Whatever good mood he had collected evaporated in an instant. “Just as well. I suppose he thought it better to fall asleep in bed than talking to you.”

The reaction he provoked was more than he could have hoped for. Tim’s fingers stopped their rhythm, and he turned in the chair to look Damian square in the eye. It was unnerving the heat he could put behind the glare without showing emotion in his face. “More likely he was too tired from cleaning up _your_ messes. He probably took you off patrol to keep you from hurting anybody else.”

“Nobody got hurt.”

For a moment it looked like Tim wanted to say something to the contrary, but then he settled on, “Not tonight, no thanks to you. But it has happened, and it will happen again.”

“You destroy everything, Damian. It’s in your nature.”


	2. Part 1

Damian scoffed, tugging at a particularly tenacious bit of crabgrass. It was only a sprout; why it required all of Damian’s body weight to uproot it was a mystery to him. With a final heave, the weed slid free of the garden mulch, sending Damian sprawling onto his back.

He lay there a moment, calculating the pros and cons of quitting. (Definitely not catching his breath.) Now that the sun was up, it was looking like it would be a nice day. Birds were chattering in the impeccably-pruned trees on the manor’s lawn and in the untamed forest beyond. The smell of roses drifted by on a light breeze. The lawn itself was plush, cushioning Damian’s earlier tumble.

Damian let his eyes drift shut at the calm of it all.

Day three of his three-week punishment was looking no different from his first two. That morning, he had met Pennyworth at the base of the grand stairway at six a.m. sharp. Pennyworth had led him outside to the gardening shed, handed him a list of chores that needed to be completed, and left him to complete them before noon.

The first day, Damian had returned an hour late for lunch, covered in dirt and grass stains, and grumbled about the heat. Pennyworth had said something about the sunshine being good for him, “and would, in fact, benefit all of this house’s otherwise nocturnal residents,” while he had side-eyed Damian’s father.

Today, he had already finished fishing the worst of the muck out of the pond. Weeding one of the manor’s flower beds seemed as though it would be an easy task in comparison, though Damian was learning quickly that some of the weeds could be more stubborn than Grayson. Weeding was not for the weak-willed or the weak-backed.

There was a rustle from somewhere over his shoulder. Damian ignored it. Probably another rabbit. He wouldn’t tell Pennyworth, but he had been sneaking food to them. (Of course, Pennyworth probably knew anyway.) They had been getting less wary of him, and he hoped that he could train them to poop whenever they saw Drake.

The rustle got closer, then stopped.

A low growl.

Damian’s eyes shot open. On reflex, he rolled to his feet as his attacker sprang. The assailant’s shoulder only grazed him, but it weighed enough to send him a few steps back to keep his balance. His foot hit something behind him, and when he blindly reached down, his fingers curled around the handle of the spade he had been using. He raised it in front of him and adjusted his grip.

It was a dog. A massive, ugly Rottweiler, drool dripping from its snarl and blood and dirt matted in its fur. Clearly a stray.

It had already sized Damian up, so didn’t spare him the luxury of examining it further. It lunged again, this time aiming its teeth at the fleshier bit of Damian’s arm. Damian expertly sidestepped the attack and smacked the flat of the spade into the dog’s nose. It yelped, stunned for a moment. Not one to miss an opportunity, Damian threw all of his bodyweight onto the dog’s back.

The dog’s legs folded after a moment, and Damian quickly swung a foot over the other side of the dog’s back so he was straddling it. He leaned forward and pressed his forearms into the top of the dog’s neck, hoping to pin it to the ground. The dog bucked, Damian’s arms and upper body slipped forward, and the Rottweiler’s teeth snagged the wrist of the hand holding the spade. Damian hissed, pulling his hands back out of the beast’s range and dropping his only weapon. Blood was already beginning to seep out of the saliva-slathered wounds.

The dog was still trying roll to get Damian off its back. It swung its head and open maw back in his direction, but Damian wisely kept out of its range. He grit his teeth and dug his knees into either side of the dog’s ribs. When that only made it angrier, he dug his elbows into the tops of its shoulders as well.

It yelped again, muscles seizing up beneath Damian’s body weight. Damian’s eyes widened, worried he had broken a bone, and he pulled his elbows back. There was an open, bleeding wound, right where he had planted the sharpest part of his elbow.

While he was distracted, the dog managed to roll over, sending Damian head-first into the ground with a _crack_.

“Damian!” His father sprinted around the corner of the manor. Just in time to see him fail. Again.

Damian’s fingers flit over the grass in hopes of finding the spade he had lost earlier. The dog stood on Damian’s chest, its sharp claws digging into his skin and its weight making it difficult for him to breathe. Not that he would want to; it was huffing its rank breath right into his face.

Damian’s heart was about to beat out of his chest; if the dog were to strike, odds are he wouldn’t be able to dodge it this time. He tucked his chin down to keep his neck protected, but there was little he could do for his abdomen.

“Don’t move,” his father commanded.

Bruce tackled the dog from the side, his body weight easily overpowering that of the canine’s. From his pocket he pulled a vial and syringe, and sank what Damian assumed to be sedative beneath the dog’s skin. Within thirty seconds, the dog was limp and pliant.

Damian’s adrenaline burned away, leaving his limbs shaky as he climbed to his feet. He would have loved nothing more than to rest in the plush grass, but Bruce was giving him a look he couldn’t decipher. It made him uncomfortable, when Bruce’s brow furrowed at the sight of Damian’s bloody hands and elbows. He knew his father’s beliefs when it came to killing—any ‘unnecessary’ violence— and he had to resist hiding the incriminating evidence behind his back like a toddler would a broken toy.

“I didn’t hurt the dog.”

Bruce almost startled at Damian’s statement. “Damian—“

“It was injured before it attacked me.”

“You’re bleeding.” Bruce’s non-sequitur derailed Damian’s planned speech. He watched in confusion as his father stepped over the softly-breathing body of the dog and crouched beside him. “Some of this blood is yours. Where are you hurt?”

Damian numbly presented his shredded wrist, and his father held it with a gentleness unexpected of the calloused hands. Then the action seemed to catch up with him, and Damian pulled his hand back. “It is nothing.” Nothing he shouldn’t have been able to prevent, at least.

Bruce’s mouth pressed into a thin line, when Alfred appeared around the corner, toting a large dog kennel. “Master Bruce, did you find—Master Damian!” Damian almost winced; another person to witness his failure. Alfred dropped the kennel next to the unconscious dog. “I take this as a yes, then?”

“He hit his head,” Bruce interjected. Damian flinched at his tone. He sounded angry. “He may have a concussion.”

“No,” Damian said. Both men looked at him. He had spoken too fast, and the word came out more desperate than he had intended. “I am fine,” he tried again. To illustrate his point, he took several steps back and brushed some of the dirt off his trousers. The effect may have been lost, though, when the motion tilted the horizon to the left, and he did his best to hide his momentary disorientation until the world rightened itself again.

He must have succeeded, because Bruce’s face tightened for a moment, then he nodded brusquely and began moving the dog into the kennel. Alfred watched his actions with an air of disapproval. The way Bruce held the dog smeared the grime into his shirt. Damian took a moment to surreptitiously check his own clothes. They were meant for working outside, but clearly were nicer than not, and Damian had managed to get them covered in grass stains, dirt, blood, and _paw prints_ of all things.

Alfred sniffed, turning his attention back to Damian, who shrank back a little under the scrutiny. “I trust you will alert me should you feel faint on our way to the nearest first aid.”

Damian could think of nothing more humiliating than being _carried_ down the stairs to the ‘basement’, so nodded tiredly. Still, Alfred followed him closely, and Damian felt his scrutinizing gaze on his back the whole somewhat unsteady journey through the manor and into the Cave.

It was the first time he had stepped through the clock since he had been grounded. Pennyworth and his father had been diligent in keeping him out, lest he attempt to sneak away and . . . “make a mess,” had been Drake’s words.

When Damian sat on a cot in the medical bay, it was with the weight of that knowledge on his shoulders. He did his best to remain still as Pennyworth used a warm cloth to clean the majority of the blood off his face, hands, and arms. He went through the concussion test without a word of disagreement, and it wasn’t until Pennyworth began stitching together the worse of the slices in his arm that Bruce came down the elevator, the kennel—and presumably the dog—in tow.

He had no words for Damian or the butler, but went straight to the Batcomputer, which had been running a chemical analysis program since they had arrived. The way he set the kennel gave Damian the perfect view of the dog, and he filled the ensuing moments of silence with observing the animal more closely.

It was massive, yes, but its paws were a little too big for its body, and Damian realized it hadn’t yet grown to its full size. The too-clearly-visible ribs beneath its skin rose and fell in a steady rhythm as it dozed. It was hard to see beneath the matted fur, but Damian was able to identify several lacerations along the dog’s flank, as well as what looked like teeth marks. Its tail was little more than a stump, and there was a chunk missing from one of its floppy ears.

Clearly, its life thus far, though short, had been rough.

Finished wrapping Damian’s hand and wrist with a bandage, Pennyworth stepped back toward the cabinet of antibiotics. “Master Bruce, the results of the test?”

Damian’s father grunted by the computer, then closed the open window. “Nothing toxic. He’ll be fine.”

Pennyworth hummed noncommittally and extracted a bottle from the cabinet, which he set next to Damian. “Dog bites easily become infected, so it will be necessary for you to take a round of antibiotics.”

Bruce turned away from the Batcomputer and gave Damian a once-over. “Concussion?”

“I am fine.”

“He has a mild concussion. I recommend at least two weeks of rest in addition to his grounding.”

Damian’s eyes widened a fraction. But Bruce just grunted in acknowledgment. He was giving him that look again, that drew his eyebrows together and set his jaw.

Damian jut his chin out. “I can still perform my duties as Robin.”

“Not while you have a concussion.”

“It is nothing I have not dealt with before.” It seemed to be the wrong answer, because Bruce’s forehead pinched tighter.

Not wanting to deal with his father’s anger—whatever had triggered it—Damian was quick to change subjects. “Why is there an animal here?”

Bruce sat down on the gurney across from his, his gaze not lingering far from the bandages swathed around Damian’s left hand. “Batman raided an arms dealership last night. Rumor had it the organization was genetically engineering attack dogs illegally for buyers. The raid went wrong—somebody tipped them off—and when we got there the facility was on fire.” Bruce leaned back, resting a palm on top of the dog kennel. “She was the only surviving animal.”

“They left the others to die in the fire?” Damian’s stomach churned.

Bruce nodded. “They locked them in one of the back rooms. Probably hoped to destroy the evidence. We don’t know how she escaped, but I suspect the organization was also running a dog fighting ring to show off their merchandise. She’s still young, and chemical analysis results show she wasn’t injected with the same compound as the others.”

“She was the bait, then.” He could feel his blood pressure rising. “I hope you captured the scum that did this.”

Bruce shook his head. Damian scowled. “I brought her back in hopes of finding evidence of genetic modifications, or a way to trace the perpetrators to their new location. I may be able to reverse engineer the tracking device I found on her and follow the signal.”

Damian’s eyes settled on the steady rise and fall of the dog’s chest. “So what happens to her?”

Bruce’s lips thinned. “The best thing we can do is put her down.”

“What? No!” Damian startled himself and everyone else in the Cave with his outburst.

“Master Damian, we don’t know what kind of training she has had, and this morning has already proven she is too unpredictable to be released to the public.”

“But that’s not fair!” Damian hated how he sounded, like a petulant child denied its dessert.

“The decision has been made,” Bruce stated.

He flew off the gurney and over to the dog’s side. “She was afraid, and acted valiantly in spite of it.”

“She attacked you.”

Damian was careful not to show emotion as he responded, “She would have beaten me had you not arrived.” He knew he was testing the waters, reminding his father of his recent failure, but after a moment there was still no response.

“You told me we are supposed to protect the innocent.” Tentatively, he poked his fingers through the bars of the cage and swept them through the dog’s fur. He may have imagined it, but he thought she leaned into his touch. “She’s the victim.”

Bruce stood abruptly. “She’s dangerous.” He began to walk away, but paused when Alfred cleared his throat.

“Master Bruce, if I may.” He pulled the latex gloves off his hands with a snap. “The dog is still young, and Master Damian will have a lot of time on his hands in the upcoming weeks. Perhaps he could train her?”

Bruce hesitated, and Damian was not one to miss an opportunity. “I can do it,” he insisted.

His father twisted his head in Damian’s direction without turning all the way around. Damian watched his eyes flit about, the only indication of thought not trained out of Batman’s body.

Finally, he grunted, before heading up the stairs.

“Master Damian, I choose to believe that was a yes.”


	3. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter. I got a little carried away writing Damian-and-dog fluff. 
> 
> Also, take everything I say with a grain of salt: I am not an expert in rehabilitating dogs, birds, medicine, or drawing.

Damian rubbed furiously at the paper in his hands, unhappy with the shading on his most recent sketch. The dog looked too foreboding in her kennel, only the whites of her eyes gleaming from the shadows. The paper began to fray under the pressure of his eraser, so he ripped it out in frustration, crumpled it into a ball, and added it to the growing pile of discarded attempts to capture the essence of his new ward in the trash.

She observed from her kennel in the corner of his room, where she had been lying alert since waking from the sedatives. Her ears twitched back when Damian huffed at the new blank page of his sketch book. “I am going to run out of paper soon. This is all your fault.”

She stared at him blankly, ears and tail alert and muscles tight enough to lunge after him.

She wouldn’t, though. It had been three days since she was moved into Damian’s room at his own insistence, and she had yet to leave the safety of her kennel while he was present. He set a bowl of water and a bowl of food in front of her hiding place each morning, and by the time he returned from his morning studies and lunch they would both be only half-filled, so he knew she left. Just not when he was present.

Which he was, more often than not. Robin was benched, so he was not allowed in the Cave; Damian was injured, so he was not allowed to do anything Pennyworth or his Father deemed “physically taxing” or “dangerous”—a list that included spelunking, chores, training, and exploring the manor’s grounds.

During times like these, he would normally visit Grayson, whose incessant chatter at least filled the silence. But Grayson was somewhere in Europe working on a case.

Damian was growing bored.

“Hm.” He held up his sketchpad, comparing his outline to the prone dog. He wasn’t happy with the ear—the notch was drawn too far up—or the proportion of her too-large feet to her scrawny legs, but overall, “Good.” He bent his head down to correct the ear.

His pencil slipped when there was a light _humph_ from the other side of the room. He looked up to see her watching him intently, her tail stump wagging half-heartedly. Damian tilted his head to the side; it was the first time she had really responded to anything he had done.

He reached for one of the treats in his pocket and crept closer to her. Her ears flew back and she bared her teeth, suspicious of his hidden hand. He stopped halfway across the room and held the treat out so she could see it. “Pennyworth made these especially for you. Here.”

He could see her nose twitching, her nostrils flaring, and her tail twitching to a faster beat. But she didn’t leave the safety of her kennel.

Damian frowned, disappointed. “Very well.” He took a step back, toward his seat next to the window, then paused. “I will leave this here, in case you find the courage to come out.”

He picked up a book on ancient Greek philosophy he had been working through on his way back to his seat.

She never left her kennel.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a bird’s nest in the tree outside the dining room. Damian noticed it while eating lunch alone, his eyes searching for something to occupy his mind while he masticated.

“Pennyworth.”

“Yes, Master Damian?” the butler answered from the kitchen, where he was preparing tea and listening to _Madame Butterfly_.

“There is—“ at Pennyworth’s look, he hurried to swallow the food in his mouth before continuing “—it seems you have neglected the grooming of one of the trees.”

The butler paused his music mid-aria and clasped his hands in a manner that was both respectful and salty. “I assure you, if the grounds out of order, it was not my intention. I had assistance, but it has since been. . .” his mustache twitched. “Benched.”

Damian felt his ears begin to heat. He hid his face in his food and mumbled, “There’s a bird nest in the tree.”

Without glancing through the window, Pennyworth nodded. “Yes, it has been there for several weeks now.”

“Why haven’t you gotten rid of it?”

“Why should I?”

“Well, because. . . “ Damian cocked his head to the side, then covered up his uncertainty by jutting out his chin. “Because it does not belong there.”

“Master Damian, is there somewhere you would like to find nests besides trees?”

“No, I mean—“

“The Wayne legacy is to facilitate the growth and development of productive and positive lives. How could we expect to live up to that legacy for an entire city’s worth of people if we could not for a small family of birds?”

“Tt.”

The kettle whistled, so the butler excused himself to finish preparing the tea. Damian watched the nest for the rest of the time he ate, waiting for something to happen.

Sure enough, two cardinals settled in the hedge only a few minutes later. Their colors were bright, and he found himself itching for his paints.

Later, he promised himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, he returned from lunch to find the dog rooting around on his bed. “Hey!”

She looked up, frozen for a moment, before scampering back into his headboard with raised hackles. Damian paused in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. He avoided eye contact as he searched the room for a way to defend himself quickly if he needed to; the guard dogs where he grew up would attack anyone who made the mistake of looking at them too long. His gaze landed on the empty food bowl.

“You ate more today than you normally do. That’s a good sign.” He kept his voice even and controlled, hoping it would help soothe her fear. He knew what kind of treatment she received before arriving at the manor, and he had no doubts she would attack if she thought she needed to defend herself.

Without thinking about it, he brought a treat from his pocket. Immediately, her ears perked up and her nose twitched in interest. Damian looked around the room again, and this time noticed the very empty spots where he had placed treats earlier in an attempt to lure her from her kennel.

“Looks like you found the other treats, too. Do you like them?” He took a single step forward, palm and treat outstretched. She looked from her kennel to the treat in his hand to his face, legs braced. Damian took a deep breath and another step, then another and another.

She didn’t stop growling, but she didn’t lunge, either.  When Damian reached the foot of his bed she barked. He stopped, slowly stretching his palm as close to her as he could without leaning over her.

“Here. Treat.”

Tentatively, eyes watching his for any sign of aggression, she slinked toward him. She hesitated a foot from his hand. For a moment, Damian thought she was going to bolt. But then she tentatively plucked the treat from his hand and took it to her kennel to eat.

Damian couldn’t help but smile. “Good girl.”

Her tail wagged.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred pulled the last of her stitches out a week after they were put in. “Master Damian,” he had said, “now that she is well, it would be in her favor—and anybody who may have the misfortune of running into her—to give her a proper bath.”

So Damian filled a kiddie pool in the backyard with lukewarm water. With Pennyworth’s help he coaxed her into a harness and leash. She bared her teeth, but didn’t even growl when Damian touched her. She didn’t resist the leash, either, when Damian began to lead her outside. (His Father trailed behind in case she tried to run, because she was certainly heavy and strong enough to get away from Damian if she so chose).

When she saw the pool outside, her entire demeanor changed. She began to charge, and Bruce wrapped his arms around Damian’s waist in time to keep him from being dragged through the yard behind her.

“Let go! I can—“

He was interrupted when she splashed into the water. They both watched, stunned, as she pawed at the water and dipped her muzzle in to fling it up over her back.

Bruce’s grip tightened slightly, and Damian remembered his feet were dangling a foot off the ground. “Father, let go.”

Bruce gently lowered him, and Damian shot toward the pool, stopping at the border. “Hey.” Damian still hadn’t named her (because his father and Pennyworth had told him he was not allowed to), but the common slang term Americans used to gain the attention of others appeared to work for animals, too.

The dog’s ears pricked to attention.

“You enjoy the water.” It was as much a question as it was a statement.

She couldn’t answer, of course, but her little tail stump was wagging incessantly. Absently, Damian noticed it wagged in a circle, slightly skewed to the right. She showed no signs of aggression or defensiveness at all; it was like watching a rebirth.

Emboldened by this idea, Damian bent down to roll up the bottoms of his pants. “I intend to bathe you now, so hold still.” But when he reached for the leash of her harness, she seemed to realize what Damian had been hoping to prevent: she was free.

He didn’t stand a chance.

It took an hour of cat-and-mouse to corner her in the gazebo, and even then it was only because she chose to lie in the shade for a break instead of sprint away again. With a stern warning from his father, Damian took her by the harness and led her to the pool.

She took it better than he had expected when he stepped in after her. He was careful not to crowd her—his Father had returned inside after receiving a call from Drake about WE, leaving only Pennyworth to watch “for his safety” from outside the splash zone. He made every intention to touch her clear and non-threatening, and murmured praises when she began to still. He lathered shampoo into her fur and rinsed it out softly but diligently for nearly forty-five minutes, combing burs and seeds and small twigs out with his fingers as he went.

When he got to her head, he used only water and his fingers to brush back the fur around her eyes and up her nose. To his surprise, she closed her eyes and leaned into this touch. So he continued stroking up her nose, between her eyes, and then found what seemed to be a good spot behind one of her ears. Her mouth fell open, and her tongue lolled to the side in appreciation.

After a few calm minutes of petting, she opened her eyes, leaned in to where Damian was kneeling in the pool and licked his cheek.

A camera shutter clicked at some point. “Master Dick would wish to see this,” Alfred said.

 

* * *

 

 

After that, it was harder to make her stay alone than it was to lure her out. She grew accustomed to following Damian around the manor. Everywhere he went, there was a 100-pound drooling, shedding, and growling animal next to him. Damian secretly found it endearing.

Until he did not.

“Nike—“ he had named her, in private, without his father’s knowledge “—no.”

She whimpered at him. He tried again to shut the bathroom door, but she left her muzzle poking through the slit that was left. Frustrated, Damian swung the door open all the way. “I assure you I will return before you are able to wreak havoc.”

She wriggled with just enough force to push past him and laid down by the sink. Her tail wagged intermittently in an unsure victory.

Damian sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Fine. But this is the last time.”

When he started the shower water, he saw her ears twitch in interest.

“ _Absolutely not._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

The cardinals had laid eggs in the nest. Damian made a note of it for the first time during a rare meal in which he was not alone. Unfortunately, this made it harder for him to sneak food under the table for Nike.

The only person present other than himself was Drake, who had yet to touch his food. He was busy, again, working on something for Wayne Enterprises. His father wasn’t necessarily paying Damian any attention, but he was sure his father was cognizant enough to be aware of his actions should he not distract him.

So he interrupted a long few minutes of silence with, “Cease and desist, or I shall be forced to act accordingly.”

Drake looked up from his laptop tiredly. “What?”

Bruce, without looking up, murmured, “Behave.”

Tim’s eyes flit between Bruce, his younger brother, and his laptop. His face scrunched up in a mix of confusion and indignance. “What did I do?”

Damian took the opportunity to sneak food under the table. Nike pulled the carrot from his hand quietly and swallowed it in one gulp.

“Don’t antagonize Damian.”

“I didn’t do anything! I—“ Tim abruptly cut himself off at the look Bruce aimed at him. Damian smirked in triumph when he got an entire beef cutlet under the table without anybody noticing. Tim saw his expression and scowled. “Fine. You want me to leave,” he snapped his laptop shut and stacked his cold plate of food on top, “I’ll leave.”

“Tim—“

“I’ve got work to do, anyway.”

Nike set her head in Damian’s lap and gave him The Look. Damian minutely shook his head.

“Damian.” Damian’s head shot up and he put on his best innocent face.

“If you keep feeding her like that you’ll make her sick.”

Damian winced. “The gig is up, Nike. No more.”

She whined once, but obediently laid down by Damian’s feet and didn’t beg for any more food.

“You named her.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I find it easier to train her when she knows what to respond to.”

His father grunted. “Don’t get attached.”

“Of course.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

He could see the nest if he sat on the bench under the tree it rested in. He began taking his sketch pad with him while he let Nike exercise in the yard. (He learned quickly he should not take his eyes off her too long, because she liked to dig holes.)

The mother didn’t leave the nest, but the father would flit about, low to the ground, and bring back insects and seeds for her to eat. Damian grew familiar with their calls, the ones warning him to stay away from their nest and the ones sounding almost like banter between the two.

Nike was not at all interested in the birds, but the squirrels. After her initial exploration of the yard, and occasionally a few splashes in the pool, she would sit next to Damian with her ears tuned toward the trees. At the smallest hint of sound, she would dash off, tail stub waggling in excitement. She had yet to catch a squirrel, but had learned several ways to get closer to them.

“Nike, be quiet.” Damian said, shading the underside of a leaf on his sketch pad. When she still didn’t stop barking, he looked up.

She was in the tree.

  

* * *

 

 

Damian was allowed back into the Cave “for basic training _only_ ” after a few more days. Nike, of course, accompanied him, under Damian’s oath he would not allow her to gnaw on the legs of the medical cots again.

He was not allowed to be in the Cave during patrol, but then, if he _happened_ to be performing maintenance on his gear—which he certainly couldn’t take upstairs—during patrol, he could leave his communicator online and listen to proceedings. And in the case something happened, he would be prepared to join Batman in the field.

Batman had managed to trace the signal from Nike’s tracker back to a source, and Red Robin’s follow-up investigation suggested the weapons manufacturers were meeting with suppliers before the end of the week. Batman had been busy studying the facility and making plans to prevent the trade from occurring. Red Robin was gathering incriminating evidence for the Gotham Police.

So it wasn’t surprising that Batman returned late from patrol. Nike crouched low and growled as the Batmobile came to a stop on its platform. Damian braced himself, but when the door opened it was only Batman that stepped out.

“What are you doing here?” Batman asked.

“Training.”

“You should be in bed.”

“I went to bed; I woke up,” Damian shot back, gesturing toward the clock on the Batcomputer’s screen. It was almost five in the morning, which is when Damian had been waking up since he was three.

Batman was silent, meaning Damian had won. When the Bat took a step forward, Nike lunged in front of Damian and barked. Wisely, Batman paused.

“What is it, girl?” Damian was instantly on the alert; since the first day she attacked, her aggression had all but disappeared. It was rare to see her so worked up over anything now. Confused, he rested a hand on her head. She shook it off in irritation and snarled.

“Nike, heel,” he commanded. He knew she heard him by the way her tail gave a single swirl, but she ignored him. “Nike,” he tried again, in a stern voice, “Heel.”

She didn’t move immediately, but slowly, cautiously, slunk backward, never letting her eyes leave the white lenses of Batman’s cowl. When Bruce moved to push his cowl back, she tensed up like she was going to pounce, so Damian grabbed her collar just in case. “I do not know what has come over her.”

Because of the way he was holding her, Damian could feel some of the tension leak out of her when his father pushed the cowl back to reveal a familiar face. “She’s afraid of the car,” Bruce replied. As if to prove a point, he pressed the sensor on his utility belt to lock the Batmobile, and when it beeped in response Nike placed herself between Damian and the car and growled again.

Damian crouched down next to her. “It is okay, Nike. Father is an ally.” She chanced a glance in his direction, as if asking if he was sure. He pulled a treat from his pocket. “Heel.” When she reluctantly sat back on her haunches, he fed her the morsel and pet her head. “Good girl.”

His father sat in front of the Batcomputer and began pulling up files. Damian followed him. “What have you found?”

Batman paused in pulling off a gauntlet. “Red Robin’s intel is good. They will meet soon, but they won’t make concrete plans until short notice for security reasons. We’ll have to stake out if we want to catch them in the act.”

“Are there still dogs?”

Bruce’s jaw set. “No.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “You hesitated. What are you not telling me?” His grip on Nike’s collar tightened minutely, a shift she was not unaware of. She shifter her posture so she could leap into action should she need to.

“It is no concern of yours.”

Damian stiffened. “Yes, it is.”

“Damian—“

“How am I supposed to help—“

“You won’t.”

Damian snapped his mouth shut, the words like a slap to his face.

_“He probably took you off patrol to keep you from hurting anybody else.”_

His father didn’t notice his sudden silence, instead opening the comm until built into the Batcomputer. “Red Robin.”

Static.

“Red Robin, report.”

“Batm. . . -eft . . .”

Bruce pulled up another window on the screen. “The connection isn’t clear. What is your location?” Even as he asked, a dot blinked on the map of Gotham, showing Drake to be a few blocks from the facility he had been scoping out all night.

Damian back toward the stairs leading out of the Cave, any motivation for training waning by the second.

“Safe- . . .  -owntown.”  There was the unmistakable sound of his bike rumbling to life. “. . . See you. . . -oard mee—.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “The board meeting. I forgot.” A silent near-sigh. “You can update your report by patching into the safehouse’s network.”

Damian closed the door as his father closed the connection.

 

* * *

 

 

Damian woke up when Nike jumped onto his bed. She whined, tugging on his shirt sleeve in the way she had when she was trying to communicate she needed to go to the bathroom.

“Nike,” Damian grumbled, glancing at the clock on his bed stand. It was early morning, earlier than even Damian normally climbed out of bed. “Greek goddess of victory and keeping people from their sleep.”

She jumped off his bed when he kicked his sheets back and waited impatiently by the door, dancing from paw to paw. When he stopped to slip on a pair of shoes, she barked at him.

That got Damian’s attention. “What?”

She whined again, raising a paw to scratch against the door. Not wanting to face Pennyworth’s wrath for allowing her to damage the mahogany, he opened it quickly. She took off in a sprint down the hallway, in the opposite direction from the door leading outside. Instead, she was racing toward the other bedrooms.

“Father,” Damian breathed. He was fully awake in an instant, and chased Nike until she stopped. But it wasn’t his father’s door.

It was Drake’s.

Still.

Heart pounding, Damian’s hand closed around the doorknob and he swung the door open as he announced, “Drake, I’m coming in. If you’ve hidden treats in here to try to sway Nike to your side—“

He cut himself off when he took stock of the room. The lights were on, leaving the mess clear to the world: clothes in crumpled heaps on the floor, paper and notebooks and textbooks precariously stacked on the desk and all of the floor space surrounding it, the bed sheets twisted onto the floor along with the pillows. He couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose in disgust; it smelled like old coffee.

Nike squeezed past him into the room, nose to the floor. “Do not eat anything,” Damian warned. He didn’t see any food within her reach, but there was no telling what she would find in that mess. But she ran straight to the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar, and pushed it open.

“Drake!” Damian yelled, sliding to his knees next to the older boy. Tim was lying in an awkward position on the bathroom floor, barely breathing. Somehow, he was still conscious, and his eyes were open to slits.

They slid over to Damian, and with the effort it would take to lift a car Tim managed to raise a finger. “Dame—“ he whispered, the second half of his name lost to an inhale.

Damian grabbed his brother’s hand and squeezed. Beyond the sound of blood thrumming in his ears, he heard Nike barking somewhere down the hallway.

He felt for a pulse. There was none in Tim’s wrist, so he moved his fingers up to his neck. There were dark bruises in the shape of fingers around his neck that made Damian’s stomach turn. He found Tim’s pulse, but it was weak and much too fast. Dropping his hand, he tapped Tim’s cheek. “What have you done?” It came out harsher than he had intended in his fear.

Tim’s eyes slipped shut, so Damian slapped him a little harder. “Drake, you imbecile, surely you know enough basic first aid to know you are not allowed to fall asleep.”

“Chest. Tight.” Tim’s eyes squeezed shut deliberately in the most open display of pain Damian had seen on him.

“Your chest?”

“Can’t. Breathe.”

Damian looked down and noticed Tim’s other hand, clutching at his ribs under his opposite arm. There was blood gurgling through the wadded T-shirt in his hands.

Damian sucked in a breath, peeling the older boy’s hand back so he could see the wound. “You idiot.” There were a series of gashes running parallel to Tim’s ribs that were deep enough he could see bone. The ends of broken stitches stuck out of the inflamed skin. Damian clenched his teeth and pulled down a clean hand towel. Towel be damned, he was not going to let Drake bleed out on his own bathroom floor—it was insulting—so he pressed the towel against the angry lacerations with as much force as he could muster.

Tim groaned at the feeling.

“Tt. Stop being such a baby.”

When Tim’s eyes slipped shut, Damian couldn’t get him to open them again. “Drake. Drake!”

“Move.” His father none-too-gently pushed Damian aside so he could take his place at Tim’s side. The towel was soaking through already, and when Damian looked at his hands they were covered in blood.

And he was struck by the thought this was far from the first time they had been.

 _“You were trained to murder people_.”

“Tim, look at me.” Bruce rested his large hand on the side of Tim’s face. “Timothy.”

Drake’s eyelids twitched, but they still did not open.

“What happened?” Bruce barked, not even turning toward him.

Damian flinched, full-body, at the fury behind his father’s words. “I swear, I found him like this.”

Alfred arrived and only examined the scene a moment before concluding. “Master Bruce, the Cave.”

Bruce gave a curt nod before scooping up his son and rushing out the door. Alfred followed.

And then it was quiet.

Damian sat where his father had pushed him, numbly pressing his fingers together and pulling them apart to feel the tackiness of the drying blood. It was an old habit.

There was a weight in his lap, and Damian blinked and noticed Nike, who whimpered and licked his face. “Sh, Drake will be okay. Pennyworth is an excellent physician.”

He rolled his weight into the balls of his feet and rose to a stand. There was a puddle of blood on the floor where Drake had been lying. There were equally-soaked bandages in the trash and on the counter of the sink. Damian’s brow furrowed, his brain kicking back into gear at the sight. There was too much blood, and when he thought about it the blood on his hands was not the right texture. It felt familiar, though, in a different way.

Eyes widening, he ran down to join his family in the Cave.

 

* * *

 

 

“Father, I know what’s wrong with Drake.”

“He was poisoned.”

Damian blinked, hand with the bloody bandage dropping back to his side. “How do you know?”

Bruce was standing at the Batcomputer. “Last night he was supposed to infiltrate the weapons storage compound of our recent case and obtain data following their most recent shipment. What he found included information on a drug they’ve been developing.” Alfred stepped away from the medical bay at that moment. “How is he?”

“No improvement, I’m afraid,” the butler replied, face grim. “But no worse, either. He’s on a ventilator until his O2 levels rise. Do you know what it is yet?”

“The Computer is analyzing the blood sample, but so far it hasn’t found anything.”

“I know what it is,” Damian said.

Both men looked at him. “You know what happened?”

Damian clenched his fist. He did not want to explain why he was intimately familiar with the symptoms of this particular poison. “It’s extracted from the venom of snakes. It breaks down blood platelets so it won’t clot. It’s not sticky,” he explained, pulling his fingers apart again to demonstrate. “And combined with the right medications, it acts as a paralytic.”

“What is the cure?”

Damian’s face scrunched. “It depends on when the drug was administered.”

Bruce frowned. “There is no record of injuries in his report from last night.”

“It would take a few days for symptoms to reach this level of severity.”

Alfred looked put-off. “He has been hiding this injury for a few days?”

Bruce paused. “I have been patrolling with Red Robin. . . “ his words trailed off when he thought about it. Then his fingers danced to life on the keyboard, pulling up the last week’s reports. Red Robin had been alone in gathering intel from the weapons manufacturers while Batman had investigated the people they were trading with. Bruce swore under his breath.

According to the report Batman had yet to read, the one from the night his communicator had been malfunctioning, Red Robin had been intercepted by security on his way out of the compound. During the scuffle that followed, one of the vials of the drug had been knocked over, and he had sustained several injuries.

“He never said anything,” Alfred said.

“He should have told me,” Bruce said, turning away from the monitor. Then, head in hand, he added, “I should have noticed.”

“Master Bruce, now is not the time to begin self-loathing. Your son needs your help.”

With Damian’s knowledge of the drug his grandfather had been the first to manufacture, they were able to create an antidote to the poison slowly shutting Tim’s body down. Pennyworth injected it to the IV carrying the blood replacing that which Drake had lost.

Then they waited.

Damian was antsy. His adrenaline had yet to wear off, leaving his fingers buzzing. When he tried to go to the exercise mats, his father physically pulled him away without explanation. It served as a reminder of Damian’s own disheveled state, and Pennyworth fussed over getting the blood off his hands and out of his shirt while Damian stared blankly at Drake’s cot.

He saw it coming with his father’s scrutinizing gaze, but had no defense when he was ordered back to bed.

Damian refused, at first.

His father heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose from where he kept vigil by Drake’s cot. “Damian, just do as I say for once.” When he still didn’t move, he looked him square in the face. “Go.”

He managed to get to his room before the beginnings of tears pricked at his eyes.

It was stupid. He swallowed them back down and breathed evenly until the urge was gone.

Still, he couldn’t sleep. When he closed his eyes, he could see Drake’s pained face. When he opened them, he could see the flecks of dried blood under his nails that Pennyworth had missed in the dim light of the Cave. The manor was too quiet.

Nike had followed him to his room, but she watched the shut door with ears alert. She was worried, too. Damian sat on the floor and leaned against the door next to her, brushing his hand through her fur to calm her.

Definitely not to calm himself.

When his heart rate failed to even out, Damian curled into a ball and tucked his face into his knees. He _knew_ the antidote would work. He was taught how to create and administer it at a young age in case any rogue League members tried to poison him with his grandfather’s creation.

_“You were trained to murder people.”_

The rough reminder from his own memory had him curling tighter. Nike whimpered and nosed her way into the crack between his arms and raised legs, forcing him to sit back so she could sit in his lap and lean heavily against him. The uncomfortable pinning sensation was overwhelmingly overridden by her familiar scent and steady breathing.

He sat that way until the sun rose and Pennyworth knocked on his door to call him down for breakfast. He ate alone in the kitchen. Not that he minded; he didn’t want to leech attention from his father that belonged to Drake.

_"B had more important things to worry about.”_

Not again.


	4. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. I've been blown away by all of your support and encouragement and positive feedback. Thank you so so much.

It took a full twenty-four hours for Drake to recover enough to wake up. Damian’s father spent the time at Tim’s bedside, waiting for the first sign he would be okay. Damian wanted to see proof of his correct diagnosis himself, but every time he tried to get close he was pushed away. He didn’t know why the blame for Drake’s stupid mistake somehow rested on himself, but the message that it was his own fault was clear enough.

“Don’t antagonize your brother,” his father would say.

“Master Timothy is under enough stress as is,” Pennyworth would quietly reprimand.

They let Nike in, though. She, apparently, was good enough to see Drake.

Drake was eventually moved from the Cave to his room to recover (after Pennyworth cleaned it to his satisfaction.)

The manor was stuffy. It had been raining for days on end, like Pennyworth assured him was normal for this time of year. Damian was reminded to be quiet every time he left his room, lest Drake be disturbed. He hardly saw his father, who was juggling Tim’s Wayne Enterprises work with extra patrols to cover for his loss. (Damian had offered to reappear as Robin, but his father had refused with stiff shoulders and set jaw. He hadn’t suggested it again.)

Nike was his only company. To be fair, she was good company. She was never angry with him.

Damian saw his father for the first time in three days when he joined him for breakfast. He could feel him judging him for his choice of meal—Grayson’s taste in sugary cereals had been passed onto him—but otherwise the meal was passed in silence.

Until it wasn’t.

“Where is the dog?”

Damian dropped his spoon into his bowl. From what he knew, Nike was napping in her kennel. “I can fetch her.”

Bruce shook his head. “Make sure she’s clean by six-o’clock this evening. People will be coming to collect her.”

Damian stiffened. “Of course.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at Damian’s posture. “You knew this would happen.”

Damian hid his clenched fists under the table. He knew, he had just chosen to ignore it. “I assume you found a good home for her?”

“I don’t know where. I contacted people from one of the organization Wayne Enterprises made a charitable donation to last year. They’ll place her.”

Damian nodded into his empty cereal bowl, hating the burn in his chest. Don’t get attached, his father had warned. A simple enough rule; he had been foolish to break it.

 

 

She didn’t know. When he brought out her leash she wagged her tail in excitement; it would be the first time they had gone on a walk for several days. When they got outside she rushed down the trail through the grove trees, unaware she was the only reason Damian cleared many of the mud puddles. By the time they returned to the lawn, it was raining again, but Nike lunged for her favorite toy—a spare piece of rope pilfered from the Batcave—and nudged it into Damian’s hand, urging him to throw.

Mechanically, he accepted the rope. She waited, big brown eyes lit with anticipation. Damian felt a sudden surge of emotion, and wound up to throw the rope as hard as he could.

It soared higher and further than it ever had before.

It landed in a tree.

Nike lunged after it anyway. She circled the trunk, clearly looking for a way to get up.

“Nike, leave it.” She tilted her head in his direction but ignored him, jumping so her front paws stretched to the lowest of the branches.

“Dumb dog,” he grumbled under his breath. There was no heat behind it, though. He sat heavily on the bench under the nest. Nike lost interest in the rope the second she saw a squirrel bounce across the opposite end of the yard. Damian didn’t have the motivation to chase after her; she would come back, anyway.

He leaned back to lie lengthwise across the bench, his knees hanging off the narrow end. His heels tapped a pattern into the bench’s foundation. That’s when he spotted the nest.

And when he listened, he heard peeping in a pattern he had not heard before.

Curious, he sat up, sparing a glance toward Nike. She was completely preoccupied; it wouldn’t hurt to turn away for a few minutes.

He stood on the bench and pulled branches back so he had a clear view of the nest and what was inside. The eggs had hatched. A small bird crouched in the nest, a beak as large as its head tilted back in hopes of food. Damian was surprised; he had thought. . . but there were two egg shells in the bottom of the nest.

A set of calls Damian recognized as a warning came from the low branches of nearby trees, and Damian wisely backed away from the nest before the cardinal parents abandoned it. He recognized the father’s bright hue sitting atop a rose bush a few meters away, and from there it was not hard to find the mother. The small bird in the nest cheeped for its parents, but they wouldn’t come close until he left.

Damian sat down on his bench again, content to watch the parent cardinals as they plucked insects from the grass. The baby in the nest stopped cheeping after a few minutes, probably having fallen asleep after all the excitement.

And then there was another cheep. Damian’s gaze raked the branches above him, searching for the source. It came again, and then on the third cheep he realized it was coming from below.

He found the second fledgling. It was nuzzled in a particularly fluffy tuft of tall grass, head tucked into its soft down. When Damian leaned over it, he rustled a few leaves that dripped drops of water onto the bird’s back. It shivered once and dug further into the ground.

Transfixed, and determined to keep the bird warm, Damian picked it up.

It was rather ugly, if he were to be honest. Its full feathers had yet to grow in, so only the soft, muddled brown down covered its pink flesh. But it nestled into his hand, happy for the warmth. Damian tentatively ran a finger down its back. Distantly, he was aware of its parents, keeping watch from the surrounding trees. They were screaming at him, telling him to get away, but Damian meant no harm.

“I am aware it is normal for birds your age to leave the nest,” he told it. “But I recommend waiting for a nicer day to attempt it.” He looked around for a safe place to put it—he was fairly sure it would just jump out of the nest again, possibly even injuring itself. So he perched it on a dry branch only a few inches off the ground and hidden by thick foliage, not too far from the nest so the parents could still find it.

Nike must have lost her squirrel, because no sooner had he stood than she came bounding back onto the lawn covered in mud. Damian grimaced at the sight, “Pennyworth would have a fit. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The bath passed like most of them did: Nike did her best to splash Damian or finagle what Drake called a ‘tummy rub’ out of him. By the time it was over, Damian was soaked through—as much a fault of the rain as Nike’s flopping—and somehow feeling lighter than he had been when he had started.

“Here, girl,” he offered, opening his arms. She rocked into him, head resting on his shoulder in a pseudo-hug.

Damian ran his hand down her back, giving an extra scratch where he knew she liked it best, just above her tail. “Good girl, Nike.”

She humphed in agreement.

Damian took a few seconds to revel in the feeling of her weight, her soft fur, and her fast heartbeat under his fingers. Then he pulled back. Don’t get attached. “We should go inside. The people will be here to collect you soon.” He climbed to his feet and Nike followed him toward the back door of the manor. “You’re going to have a home, a real one.”

Before they could round the corner, there was a quiet but insistent _cheep_!

It all happened so fast.

Nike paused mid-step, nose in the air. Damian reached for her harness, but only barely got his fingers hooked through when the second cheep floated by, and Nike sprinted toward the bench. One of Damian’s fingers was nearly dislocated when the harness slipped from his grasp.

“Nike!”

She found the branch. Damian watched in horror as she casually snapped her teeth around the small bird.

“Nike! No!”

The dog turned her head, ears twitching to alert.

“Drop it!”

Some part of her understood the severity of the command. She dropped the soft lump of feathers gently. It landed belly-up on the same soft tuft of grass it had been hiding in before Damian had moved it.

He was too late.

“No.” Damian pushed Nike away with a little more force than was necessary. She didn’t get the message, tried to lie down so he couldn’t push her again. Damian’s face screwed up and he raised his voice. “Nike, go.”

She flinched back at his tone, and had Damian been calmer he would have felt more guilt. “Go!”

She scrambled to her feet, tail between her legs and head hanging low, and back away.

Damian didn’t wait to see where she would go. Instead, he knelt in the wet earth next to the dead fledgling. Its small feet were sticking straight up and were utterly still.

Its parents were still chirping in alarm, in the trees surrounding the lawns. ‘Stay away,’ they screamed.

They were too late, too. Powerless against the beast that carelessly picked up their child and killed it without thought.

Damian carefully scooped up the bird. “I. . . “

Its neck was broken.

“I am sorry.”

The other bird cheeped from the nest, but the parents stopped. Somehow, they knew.

Damian stood, bird still in hand. He should—it was customary to bury the dead. It seemed cruel to just leave the body beneath the nest. So he took the small shovel from the gardening shade and dug a small hole by the tree line, deep enough any passing animals wouldn’t get any ideas.

Gently, he laid the fledgling in the grave, situating in as though it were just sleeping. Handful by handful, he sprinkled dirt on top.

“I had thought. . . “ he began. He had thought Nike was better than this. He had thought she had grown out of her aggression, that showing her love would somehow change who she was: a dog. A dangerous, instinct-driven beast that would carelessly attack anything that breathed.

“I was wrong.”

He finished piling the dirt on the small grave and sat back in the wet grass. The rain was cold, but it felt good against his hot cheeks.

“Master Damian!” A warm, dry blanket was dropped over his shoulders. “Master Bruce wished to see you. The people have come to collect Nike—“

“I don’t care.”

Pennyworth’s hands paused in worrying Damian’s shivering form. “He seemed to be under the impression you would want to say goodbye. Or meet the new family—“

“It does not matter.” Damian turned away. “I do not wish to see her again.”

“Sir—“

“No, Pennyworth.” Damian headed back to the manor, with every intention of returning to his room without passing the foyer where his father was no doubt entertaining the guests. As he passed, her could hear the clattering of Nike’s paws on the hardwood floor. She sounded anxious, nervous of the new people.

But Damian hardened his resolve and continued past.

It didn’t mean he didn’t watch the car pull away from Wayne Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: Tim will be playing a more active role in the next chapter, finally justifying the relationship tag.


	5. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: somewhat-reluctant brotherly bonding, Detective Drake trying to keep his cool, and Damian the Brat trying to hide how much he cares.

Life slowly returned to normal.

Unfortunately.

Damian had to drag extra blankets onto his bed, because he had gotten used to Nike’s body heat like a furnace around his feet. He replaced the kennel with his easel so the corner wouldn’t feel empty after he returned the kennel to the Batcave.

Drake was recovering slowly but surely, and it had reached the point that Pennyworth had had to check on him every hour to be sure he had not attempted to leave bedrest early or stay up all night working.

Damian’s father had, of course, continued to ignore him.

Which was why Damian was startled when there was a knock at his door. He had been awake into the late hours of the morning, fishing toys from beneath his bed and throwing out leftover treats, and was sitting in front of the fireplace, sketchbook open in his lap to the last drawing he had completed. As with most of his recent works, it featured Nike. She was fast asleep in a puddle of sunlight in the manor’s kitchen, where she liked to loiter in case Pennyworth dropped food (which he never did (unintentionally.))

Damian snapped the book shut when his heart began feeling heavy. No, he didn’t miss her; he missed the _idea_ of her.

The knock repeated, more insistent this time.

He ignored it, hoping it was his Father, who would leave him alone if he didn’t respond.

No such luck. The knock came yet again, this time followed by the turning doorknob. It was locked, of course, and only jiggled at the effort. “Damian?”

It was Drake.

“Damian, I know you’re awake. Can I come in?”

“No.” The ‘go away’ was implied.

There was a deeper, louder thump against the door, and Damian’s heart leapt. He ran to open it and only barely caught Drake when he stumbled in after. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“’Oh hi Tim. How are you?’” Despite the words, Drake’s voice strained with the effort it must have taken for him to drag himself to Damian’s room.

Damian growled. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Drake frowned. “I’m okay.” He pushed off Damian’s shoulders and wobbled to his feet again, only to overcorrect his balance and land on the floor.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Tt. I’ll fetch Pennyworth.”

“No!” The volume behind the plea gave Damian pause. Drake rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I, uh. . . “

Damian crossed his arms and glowered. “What is it?”

He was careful not to be fooled by Drake’s too-obvious deception technique of looking at his floor. “I heard what happened.”

Damian stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Tim laid back, a slight grimace the only indicator of the stitches in his side stretching at the motion. “Seriously? You think nobody noticed you didn’t show up to your dog’s going-away party?” He met Damian’s gaze. “You two were practically inseparable. What happened?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Father put you up to this.”

“You think he would give me a reason to come off bedrest early?”

“You must have some ulterior motive.”

Tim ran a hand through his disheveled hair and huffed in defeat. Damian tilted his head; Drake was not usually so easily persuaded. “Fine, I was bored.”

He turned away from him in dismissal. “Search for your entertainment elsewhere.” After a thought, he added, “After all, I will only antagonize you.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

He picked up the sketchbook from where he had set it on the floor, too close to Drake for his liking. “You think too highly of your position on my list of priorities.”

Drake went quiet. Damian didn’t notice at first, caught up in trying to put his sketchbook on his topmost bookcase shelf without looking like he had to strain to reach it. Then he replayed what he had said, and felt a small seed of guilt. “If you must know, Father and Pennyworth kept me out.”

Drake’s brows furrowed. It wasn’t anger, but . . . confusion? Hurt? “Why?”

Damian shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “I assumed you had asked them to. We do not . . . I do not get along well with others.”

He wasn’t expecting to get a response, and he didn’t. Drake had that look on face and in his eyes that said his mind was whirring. He was the first to break the silence. “As plush as your carpet is, do you have a chair or something I could borrow?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “You may sit on my bed. Only this once.” And he helped Drake to standing, and then to prop himself on Damian’s sea of pillows.

“You know,” Drake said carefully, adjusting himself so his bad side was protected by a wall of fluff, “that’s not really the reason I’m here.”

“Then what else do you want?”

Drake huffed. “Why do you—“ and shook his head, blew out a slow breath. “Look, I’m . . . worried.”

The hairs on the back of Damian’s neck stood on end. “What is wrong? Did moth—the antidote not work?”

“About you.”

“I’m f—“

“Shut up and listen for once, okay?” Damian snapped his jaw closed and took a step back. Tim grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit he must have gotten from Bruce. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” He looked up. “I don’t mean any of it like that. I mean, I do, but I also don’t.”

“You have a concussion, correct?”

“See, you aren’t listening. Ugh, where’s Dick. . . “ Drake motioned with his hands as though trying to reel in a thought. “I watched the security footage from the Batcave—“

“Why would you do that?” Damian knew Drake was suspicious by nature, but hadn’t suspected he would mistrust him so much as to spy on him.

“I told you, I was bored. Anyway, I saw that you helped create the antidote.”

“Tt. It was nothing. I have been making it since I was a child.”

He thought he saw Drake mouth his words back to him with a raised eyebrow. “What I’m trying to say. . . . Thank you. You saved my life.”

Damian didn’t know what to say to that, so responded instead to the sinking feeling the words created in his gut. “It would not have been necessary had my grandfather not created the poison in the first place.”

“Ra’s? He made it?” Damian could practically hear the clicking of Drake’s brain hitching back into gear.

“If you are experiencing hearing loss, it is because your own ears are malfunctioning; the poison does not damage—“

“Damian, look at me.”

There was something in Drake’s tone that caused Damian to make real eye contact for the first time in weeks. Drake’s eyes had heavy purple bags beneath them, and his skin was paler than normal, but for all that he looked like had one foot in the grave, his expression was the most open Damian had ever seen it.

“You saved my life.”

“You already said that.”

“No, Damian, you wouldn’t have done that before.” It was a statement, not a question, but still held an edge of curiosity, as though Damian were a cog broken loose of its fittings.

Damian opened his mouth to respond, but realized belatedly that Drake was right. “My mother taught me that making such a mistake as you—allowing yourself to be injured, allowing the injury to become infected with the poison, allowing it to worsen without recognizing the symptoms—“

“Okay—“

“She said making those  mistakes meant you were weak. That you deserved to die.” He picked at the hem of his shirt, a habit that had been harshly trained out of him at the League but returned with time at the Manor. “You are correct. I would have let you die, were I myself.”

Tim stiffened, mask creeping back into place. “Then why bother?”

“Father would assume I was the one—“

Drake frowned. “No, stop. Bruce wouldn’t assume anything.” Damian couldn’t meet his eyes. “You know that, right?”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence when Damian couldn’t confirm.

A crease appeared at the center of Tim’s forehead. Damian took a half step back. “You said you weren’t yourself when you created the antidote. What is that supposed to mean?”

“I. . . strayed from my normal behavior. What would be expected of me.” Tim was silent, urging him to elaborate. “I should have let you die, to show Father that I was right in my assessment of your inaptitude to the lifestyle you are so adamant at continuing. To prove that I am the one true heir of Bruce Wayne and of Batman.”

“But?”

Damian swallowed. “I did not want you to be another thing that I destroyed.”

Tim's eyes widened a split second before he shot back to sitting, “Damian—“

He stepped back. Once, twice, hands balled into fists, chin jut out. “I wanted to prove you wrong. I spent years killing people, and no matter how much _good_ I do, nothing changes. _I_ can’t change. It doesn’t matter—“ his voice cracked, to his mortification, “—what I want doesn’t matter, only the results, and the results are always _bad_.” He shifted his gaze down, to where Drake had been sliced open. “Somebody always gets hurt.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Even _you_ —“

“I was wrong,” Drake replied with conviction.

Damian bit his lip.

Tim ran a hand through his hair again, eyes skirting over the room until they landed on Damian’s bedside table. He reached, flinched at the twist in his torso, and pointed instead. “Hand me that book.”

Happy for an excuse to turn away, Damian passed him his book of Greek philosophy. Tim opened the front cover and frowned at the characters inside. “It’s in Greek.”

Damian scoffed half-heartedly. “What did you expect?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “You like this stuff, right? The philosophers?”

“My mother raised me—“

“So that’s a yes. Well, remember Heraclitus?”

Damian crossed his arms, his hands now released from their fists. “I have yet to read that far.”

Tim looked over the pages he clearly didn’t understand as though they would help him gather his thoughts. “Okay, so Heraclitus, he wrote the ancient Greek equivalent of ‘you can’t step in the same river twice.’”

Damian cocked his head to the side. Raised an eyebrow. Scoffed.

“It means the only constant thing about Nature is that it is always changing.”

Damian held out his palm, and Tim handed the book back to him. He flipped through the pages until he found Heraclitus’s name, the skimmed the passages. “’We both do step and do not step in the same rivers. We are and are not.”

“See?”

“There’s a footnote here saying Heraclitus hated humans and left to wander alone in the mountains for the rest of his life.” Damian snapped the book shut. “It is wise to consume Greek philosophy with perspective, Drake, or else you will too easily buy into a senile old man’s musings.”

“How is hating people and wandering the mountains any crazier than hating people and dressing as a bat every night?”

Damian harrumphed.

“Look, Damian, I don’t know what happened with Nike.”

“Nothing happened that I should not have expected.”

“But you need to know that growing and changing is a process. The point isn’t that you get everything right all the time.” Tim shifted so he was facing Damian as directly as he could. “We make mistakes, but in the end what matters is that we grow out of them.”

“Tt. You sound like Grayson.”

Tim half-smiled. “Maybe he had to give me the same speech a few times.”

Damian pursed his lips, considering Tim’s words. “Perhaps, then, there is still a chance for you.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“If Father is one day able to appreciate everything you do. That you have done.”

Despite Drake’s attempt to hide it, Damian could see his surprise in the way his eyes blinked and returned opening a little wider than before.

“What are you talking about?”

“You forget you are not the only so-called ‘detective’ in the house.” Damian shook his head. “You should not worry about Father; you should have seen the way he waited by your cot in the medical bay.”

Tim’s face went red. “I did.” Then it blanched. “Now would be a good time to mention that I had to slip a mild sedative in his coffee to sneak past him and get here.”

Damian hummed. “So _that’s_ why Pennyworth hasn’t come looking for you.”

“Yet.” Drake’s hands clenched Damian’s comforter. “I can’t go back. This is the first time I’ve left my room in—“

“Forty-eight hours.”

“—years.”

Damian considered it a moment. “That is not my problem.”

“Seriously?!”

“Pennyworth is right; you should be in bed.”

“So should you.”

Damian stopped in his tracks. Part of his agreement for returning to training was that he would get a good night’s rest, and he had no doubt Drake was aware of it. “You wouldn’t.”

Drake’s smile stretched sharper. “You know I would.”

Damian pouted, considering. “I suppose, because you are too weak to make it back to your room by yourself, you may remain here. And only because I cannot be caught out of bed at this hour.”

Tim’s smirk was infuriating.

Damian climbed onto the other side of his bed, grumbling something unintelligibly. 

"What was that?"

"I said, pass me a pillow."

"Here."

"Tt."

"You're welcome."

Damian's pride only barely restrained the 'thank you' on his tongue.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have officially stress-written this epilogue 8 times, and I'm not happy with any of the drafts, so I'm just going to post the most recently finished one and I can change it later if I hate it.
> 
> (UPDATE 12/16/17: I rewrote this a ninth time because I didn't like the ending, but I fixed it?)
> 
> On a happier note, I want to give a huge shout-out to everybody who has commented and left kudos! I am so touched and amazed that people like it? Thank you so much for reading and encouraging and supporting me; as a newbie in the fandom it means a lot.

“I have a visual on the perps. They’re headed toward the exits.”

“Robin—“ Batman warned, but abruptly cut himself off. There was a distant sound of gunfire through the comms, then the telltale _clack_ of weapons hitting the floor.

Robin ducked behind a trash bin and watched as the men rounded a corner further down the hall. The section he and Red Robin were occupying was mostly abandoned. “I’m going to pursue.”

“Negative. Stay with Red Robin.”

Damian growled. “They’re going to get away.”

Drake’s voice came over the comms. “During the last recon I was cornered because they sent men back around to the lab.” His voice was low and fast, a tone he took on when he was trying to focus on something.

Damian returned to his post at the entry to the lab. “What is taking so long?”

Red Robin barely looked up from where he was searching through a cupboard. “It’s not exactly organized like a standard lab.”

“Status on the victims?” Batman asked.

Damian peeked into the corner of the lab, where he and Red Robin (mostly himself, because Red Robin was still recovering) had dragged the unfortunate men who were used to demonstrate the toxin’s qualities to the night’s buyers. They had been injected with a much larger dose than what Red Robin had been exposed to, and had already been unconscious by the time the vigilantes interrupted the sale. The doses of antidote they had brought in their utility belts wasn’t enough to counteract their symptoms, so Red Robin was creating more in the facility’s lab using the notes from the Batcomputer.

When Damian squinted, he could see that the men’s chests were rising and falling steadily. “Still breathing.”

“More specific.”

Robin rolled his eyes behind his domino mask as he moved to crouch over the nearest man. He peeled a glove back to place two fingers beneath his jaw. “Pulse is too fast, but not yet dangerously so.” He pulled up on the man’s eyelids. “Pupils still dilating.”

“Brain damage is a side effect?” Asked Red Robin from the counter, where he was setting up a series of graduated cylinders.

“If you had brain damage it would be immediately clear; you can’t spare the brain cells.”

Red Robin looked up from his work just long enough to shoot a half-hearted glare toward Robin when there was a loud _BOOM_ that caused the building to shudder dangerously. Damian braced himself on the wall above the men, blocking the dust knocked loose from the ceiling tiles, and Red Robin dropped out of view.

When the worst of the lurching had finished, Damian almost leapt over the counter. “Red Robin—“

Drake popped back up, holding a dirty Erlenmeyer flask. “B, what was that?” Then, noticing Robin not inches away from him, a worried scowl on his face, he smirked.

“Tt. I was not worried about you.” Robin gestured to the equipment set out with wide arms. “I was making sure you weren’t going to poison the victims.”

“Uh-huh. B?”

There was static, then Batman grumbled over the comm line, “They upgraded since last week.”

“I told you they would.”

“You were half-delirious on pain medication.”

“No, _you_ were half-delirious from sleep—“ He was cut off by another explosion, closer this time. Robin dove over the counter to catch the vial of boiling chemicals before it shattered on the floor. He hissed when his still-bare hand was burned by the hot glass.

Beneath his cowl, Red Robin blanched. “They’re trying to destroy the evidence?”

“Red Robin, disarm the bombs. Robin, finish the antidote and stay with the victims.”

“Got it,” Red Robin responded. “Robin, all you need to do is—“

“I know.”

“Right.” And he shot out the door. If the weapons manufacturers were blowing up the facility, it meant everybody important had already fled. Red Robin would be safe, assuming he could disarm the explosives before they reached this half of the large facility.

Damian glanced back to the men leaning against the wall in the corner. Their breathing was getting shallower, a bad sign. He quickly ran through the rest of the procedure for creating the antidote. If he didn’t administer it soon, the effects wouldn’t be fast enough to reverse the toxin’s symptoms.

A few minutes later, another blast nearly knocked him off his feet, but in his hand he clutched the finished antidote.

“Red Robin?” asked Batman, a hint of worry creeping into his tone.

“Almost got it.”

The lights flickered pathetically before going out altogether. Damian frowned, searching through the drawers for clean hypodermic needles with a flashlight clutched between his teeth. Finding one, he filled it with antidote and raced to the sides of the unconscious, barely-breathing men. With his injured hand, he held the flashlight long enough to announce his intentions. “I’m administering the antidote now.”

Then he plunged the needle into the first man’s arm.

He had just finished with the second man when a _BOOM_ caused the floor to rock underneath him, and he barely kept himself from face-planting with the flashlight in his mouth by bracing on his forearm. But the movement jarred him enough the flashlight rolled out of his immediate reach. At the same time, the infrastructure above him groaned loudly.

“Robin, get out now!”

“No! I still have two more—“

“That is an order!”

Damian grit his teeth and felt for the last man’s jugular, pushing in the antidote faster than was necessarily safe. But at that point it was still the best option.

“Robin, the next explosion will collapse the entire building.”

Robin snarled. “Then turn them off!”

Red Robin was breathless. “I’m working on it. I can buy you two minutes, but that’s it.”

“That’s not enough time,” Damian said, remembering the maze-like hallways leading out of the facility.

“There’s a window in the hallway,” Batman ordered.

Damian’s vision narrowed into hyper-focus, adrenaline singing through his veins. His eyes landed on the lab counter. “I have a better idea.”

“Robin, listen to me—“ Damian switched off his comm unit. He opened every cupboard beneath the lab table and swept all of the contents to the floor, paying no heed to the shattered glass. Then he dragged two men at once and shoved them into the space left. Their cuts and bruises wouldn’t compare to the damage of falling debris, so he didn’t worry too much about it.

The last man he shoved into the other large cupboard, folding the man’s limbs in to get the door shut.

He opened the door to the small cupboard and bent to crawl in when there was a deafening BOOM that sent his head back into the cupboard wall.

Consciousness was ripped away from him.

 

* * *

 

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes later that he woke. Dust was still floating around the interior of the cabinet and he could still hear the light sound of debris settling above him. The plus side: he was fine, and that meant the unconscious men were, too. The downside, he quickly learned, when he pushed against the cupboard door with his feet, was that he was stuck.

Almost belatedly, he remembered to turn on his comm unit.

“—ian answer me!” He winced at the sudden volume blasting in his ears.

“No names in costume.” His voice was raspy, probably from inhaling all of the dust in the air.

“Robin,” Red Robin started, sounding a touch more in control of his emotions than Batman, “what happened? Where are you?”

“I’m in one of the cabinets below the lab counter.” He tried again to push against the cupboard door; it didn’t budge. “There is something of considerable weight on the other side. I cannot get out.”

“The other men?”

“In the other cabinets. They should be fine.”

“Gordon just arrived with a rescue team. Hang tight.”

“I do not require rescuing.” He kicked the door. “Only assistance.”

It was almost an hour before he heard something shifting through the debris. Dim light filtered through the cracks in the cabinet, making him squint after so long sitting in complete darkness. Then something was scratching at the door. Whimpering.

Not believing what he was hearing, he tentatively pushed on the cabinet door with his foot, and the crack was enough for something to latch onto his shoelaces and start to drag him out.

“Hey!”

There was an excited bark that made his heart skip a beat, then a dog with a notch in its ear practically pounced on him. She found his injured hand and tried to lick it.

“Nike! Heel!”

She huffed in annoyance and, while Robin was distracted by the rescue vest she wore, she licked his face.

“Ugh!”

“Nike!” She obediently backed up to the side of what must be her new owner and sat. Her butt still waggled with excitement. “Sorry,” the woman said. “She’s new. You’re her first real find.”

Realizing that his position left him open to incorrect judgements of weakness, he rolled to his side and stepped into standing. “She performed acceptably.” He eyed the woman, the so-called rescue worker. Young enough she would have the energy to exercise Nike properly; a new wedding ring meant she had a partner but probably not a kid, so would pay Nike the attention she deserved. “You should reward her with a treat.”

Nike’s ears pricked up at the word, like he knew they would, and the woman smiled. She pulled what looked like a homemade treat from a pouch at her side, tossed it into the air, and Nike caught it. The movement seemed to release her from her last command, because as soon as she was done chewing she trot back up to Damian and brushed up beneath his hand in demand of petting.

He complied, kneeling next to her and running his uninjured hand up her nose and behind her ears like she liked. “Good girl, Nike.” While he continued petting, he addressed the woman. “If she is to be a rescue dog, you should consider water training.”

“Oh?”

Realizing his mistake, he hastily added on, “Slightly webbed paws. She is likely good at swimming.”

Nike suddenly tensed up and growled. Her owner lunged to grab her before the dog tried to attack Batman, who had characteristically just appeared from nowhere. “Robin,” he said, voice gravelly deep.

Robin, too, tensed. “Batman.” He stood to his full height—still not high enough to reach Batman’s shoulders, but if he had learned anything from his mother, it was to meet his adversaries with chin held high. “Before you punish me, I wish to defend my—“ he was cut off when a gloved hand brushed against the knot on his forehead, causing his eyes to reflexively flinch.

“We’ll talk about this later,” his father said, tight but softer than he had expected. Damian nodded shortly, and saw that in Batman’s other hand was his discarded glove. He made no move to offer it back to him, but he probably saw the angry red welt across his palm.

“Red Robin,” Batman called. Drake was talking with the commissioner and the paramedics, making sure the men—who had regained consciousness—would be treated properly. When he had his attention, Batman jut his chin toward where they parked the Batmobile (Red Robin was not yet allowed to ride his bike with his injuries, Alfred’s orders.)

Drake nodded once in acknowledgment, shook Gordon’s hand, and ran to join them.

They rode back to the Cave in silence. Robin had been trained not to shift restlessly like a child, but he allowed himself to busy his hands with applying triple antibiotic to his burned hand. He was all-too-aware of Batman’s eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to watch him every few seconds. Deciding what his punishment would be. He could feel the heat of his glare on the knot on his head, on the missing glove, the dust caught in his hair. Weaknesses.

When they reached the Cave and unloaded, Batman held a hand up to pause their retreats to the changing rooms. With a grave face, he said, “You both disobeyed me tonight.”

Robin, surprised, shot a look at his older brother, whose shoulders slumped minutely before straightening again in defense. “The virtual link was taking too long to deactivate the triggers. My only option was to hack directly into the interface.”

“You put yourself in danger unnecessarily,” Batman continued, as if Drake had not spoken.

Robin got the keen sense that Batman’s stony glare was aimed mostly at himself. He crossed his arms. “Unnecessarily?” Old habit had him pressing more vehemence behind the word than was strictly warranted, but he was too on-edge to care.

Batman’s jaw tightened as the corners of his lips pulled down. “There was a suitable exit within reach of the building.” His teeth snapped shut loudly and he spoke through grit teeth, “And you disobeyed me. Again.”

Damian had to fight to keep his stance at the accusation. “You said it was important to protect the victims.”

“ _I_ make those decisions, and _you_ follow them!”

Damian opened his mouth to shout something back— _that is what Grandfather would say_ —but Red Robin interjected before he could get a word out. “No, B, you don’t get to lecture us this time. You would have done the same thing.”

“You could have died!” Damian saw his hand flex toward the glove tucked in his belt.

It did not go unnoticed by Drake, either. “But we didn’t,” he said. His eyes flicked to Jason’s memorial, and understanding began to settle on Damian’s shoulders, easing him out of his defensive stance.

Batman—his father—had been afraid. Was still afraid.

Damian acted quickly, pulling off his domino in hopes it would encourage his father to pull off his cowl. “Father, I am okay.” And he had Bruce’s laser-focused attention. He was reminded of coaxing a trapped animal to allow himself to get close. (Except he had no intention of following through with his mother’s orders, this time.)

He held up his hands, wincing slightly when it pulled at the tightening skin of his palm. “We successfully completed the mission. The victims were saved. By some miracle, Drake is okay. And I am fine.”

He waited with bated breath, watching his father’s mouth twitch down bit by bit. Then, with an audible huff, he pushed his cowl back and released the tension in his jaw. Deliberately casually, he pulled Robin’s singed glove from his belt and bent lower to hand it to Damian.

“Do not,” Bruce said, forcefully, “do that _ever_ again.”

Damian took the glove numbly and nodded curtly.

Bruce straightened slowly, a hand resting on Drake’s shoulder. “That goes for you, too.”

Drake gave a thumbs up. “Got it.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, humming and patting his shoulder as he walked past. Just before he disappeared into the changing rooms, he paused and appraised his sons. “I don’t want to encourage this behavior,” he said. “So you’re washing the Batmobile.”

Damian and Drake glanced over. The vehicle in question was crusted in pollen, dust, and mud. Drake gave a low whistle.

“But,” Bruce started, getting their attention again. “You did a good job tonight.” He deliberately made eye contact with Drake, and then settled on Damian. “Both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy ending, but a happy one. Thanks for reading, guys.


End file.
